


strawberry pancakes

by powdermilkrory



Series: strawberry things [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Cis Female Harry Styles, F/F, Female Harry Styles/Female Louis Tomlinson, Female Louis Tomlinson, Fluff, Genderswap, Getting Together, Girl Direction, Girlfriends - Freeform, Harry Styles Has a Crush on Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles Makes Louis Tomlinson Food, Lazy Mornings, Louis Tomlinson Calls Harry Styles Pet Names, Minor MINOR pining the minorest of pining, Morning After, Morning Cuddles, Morning Kisses, No Smut, Pining, Sexswap, Sweaters, Useless Lesbians, girls i really did my best here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-06 00:44:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16821736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powdermilkrory/pseuds/powdermilkrory
Summary: “Harry,”Harry looks up and hums with her mouth full of pancake.“There’s strawberries in this,” she points out dumbly.“Yeah.”“You put strawberries in our pancakes.”Harry begins to look worried, “Sorry, do you not like strawberries?”Louis’ silent for a second.“I love strawberries,” she says and watches Harry smile, small and private like it’s some kind of secret, something only they know. It’s special and Louis can’t exactly put her finger on why, they’re only eating breakfast, it’s just a little thing. But it feels like the start of something important, the inciting incident, and she’s terrified.or the sequel about the morning after where harry and louis try to make breakfast, harry is quite literally hot and cold and sweet fluff ensues





	strawberry pancakes

Louis wakes up to the sound of a crash. She opens her eyes slowly and listens as a few more slightly smaller crashes sound. She turns over, eyes closed again and reaches out. The bed is empty, but it’s warm and wrinkled under Louis’ palm, and suddenly she remembers Harry. She remembers the way Harry squirmed under her mouth, whined into her lips, smirked against her chest. She remembers staring at her across the courtyard, beanie over her curls and reading a book with a furrow in her brow. She remembers seeing the exact same book every day for two weeks, always in the same spot on the bench under the tree with a new piece of winter apparel to keep her warm each day even in the tail-end of spring. She remembers the crash.

She’s naked with the exception of her underwear under her covers, and is very reluctant to emerge from the warmth of her bed. She does so with a grimace and a curse that the cute girl she’s been dreaming about for weeks isn’t in her bed. She scoops up her abandoned vest from where it fell off the bed in the night and pulls it on. But not before she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She is covered,  _ covered _ in love bites. From her jaw, to her neck, to her collarbones, to her boobs, to her fucking tummy. It’s a bit overwhelming and a lot sexy and honestly sweat inducing. 

She presses on one at the base of her neck experimentally. She does not expect the gasp that is practically ripped from her throat, it’s whiny and high, and raspy and almost unrecognizable to Louis’ ears. This is what Harry does to her and she’s not even  _ here _ . She shakes her head, trying to calm down, and pulls her shirt over her head. 

Rubbing her eyes, Louis walks out to her kitchen and sees a sheepish Harry, clad in only her unbuttoned sheer shirt and her panties, surrounded in pots and plastic plates and cups. 

“Sorry,” she squeaks. Louis just laughs and carefully steps around the various kitchenware scattered about. 

“Remodeling me house, Harry?” She asks, picking up a plate and examining for cracks, before placing it back on the shelf. Harry blushes and nervously fiddles with the hem of her shirt. Louis looks up from where she’s bent down picking up a plate, her fingers gripping the plate in her hands tightly when she sees Harry’s eyes snap to her face from her bum, presumably, hopefully, maybe. 

“M’ just teasing, love. C’mon,” she beckons to Harry, “clean up with me.” 

“I really am… I’m super sorry- I… I didn’t- I didn’t mean to make a mess, I was just,” she swallows, “I was just trying to make you pancakes,” Louis listens intently, a smile on her face as she watches Harry look anywhere but her, not once interrupting, “but I couldn’t find anything to make pancakes, so I tried to get on the counter and look, but your kitchen is very unorganized,” her eyes widen at what she’s just said, “no offense, I didn’t-“ Louis cuts her off.

“It’s okay, love, really,” she assures Harry, extending her hand as if to calm the rambling girl. She steps over a pasta drainer she has never once used and touches Harry’s hand softly. “You don’t have to apologize for trying to be nice, and you’re right my kitchen isn’t organized at all, makes me roommate crazy,” she laughs. Harry’s brow furrows in confusion. 

“You have a roommate?” She asks, curiosity and puzzlement pitching her tone. 

“Yeah, that’s not important, what’s  _ important  _ is that you tried to make me pancakes,” Louis pokes Harry’s dimple at “ _ you”, _ prompting a blush and glittering eyelashes from the taller girl. (It’s nerve wracking the way that Harry is making her feel. 

The complete power she already has over Louis. She’s terrified, but she still finds herself pushing closer. Finds herself aching for Harry’s sweet breath against her cheek. Her smile pressed into her neck and it’s goddamn dangerous and potentially destructive and possibly the worst idea she’s ever had. But it could also be the best idea she’s ever had, the one thing in life that will save her from the mundane life she would live without Harry. Her perfectly normal and reasonably fun life, but already it doesn’t seem like it would be worth it without this pink girl in front of her. Sheer and transparent and emotional and shy and wonderful and Louis is literally just standing in her kitchen talking about pancakes. She does not need to overthink this so much, but she is and it’s ridiculous. All this thinking is in the little infinity between seconds, one thought going through her head holding all of this emotion and confusion)

“Let’s see what we can do about that,” she breathes, a smile hiding her millisecond internal monologue. She’s got half a mind to call Liam and ask him where he might have put pancake mix, but she’s an independent woman and is also trying to impress/woo the wonderful girl in her kitchen, so. Maybe not. She ends up opening cabinet doors at random and peeking inside, trying not to bend over too much. Who is she kidding. She is bending over as much as she can, attempting to get Harry to look at her.

She feels desperate for Harry’s attention, something she’s never felt before seeing as people are always paying attention to her. It’s practically impossible for them not to what with her loud voice and big curves, her obnoxious smile and flamboyant wrist flicks (sometimes though, she wishes she could disappear between the shouts, hide in her friends smiles and just watch. she wishes she had the bravery to be quiet, to be able to be alone and think to herself for a minute). She always wants to occupy the most space in a room, she wants all eyes on her and pitches a fit when she falls short. 

Judging by the blush on Harry’s cheeks when she turns around, she’s succeeded. She smiles at the pink that seems tattooed on Harry’s cheeks. It’s incredibly endearing and only faintly annoying (annoying in the aspect that everything about her is endearing). Louis watches Harry just stand awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, toes pointed inward and fingers nervously fiddling with the hem of her shirt. Her green eyes dart around the kitchen, evidently too nervous to look towards the soft blue eyes across from her. Louis’ not quite sure how to make her more comfortable, so she does what she knows best. She talks.

“So are you a big food connoisseur, then?” Louis asks, her words snapping green eyes to blue again. Harry clears her throat, somewhat nervously and shrugs. 

“Maybe,” she smiles faintly, “I just like making stuff,” she says. It makes Louis thinks she’s incredibly modest; her simple response probably means she’s a great cook. She also seems vaguely flustered, and Louis can’t possibly fathom why, she’s just asking her a question, but shy looks so  _ good _ on her. It’s practically criminal and Louis wishes she was a better writer so she might be able to do something other than drool with a dopey smile and sigh  _ pretty _ like an idiot. She might write a song. Maybe a sonnet. She could probably write 7,000 words rambling on and on and on about her. It’s entirely possible. Maybe this way she can put her English major to use. It’s about the only thing it’s good for, really, soliloquies dedicated to pretty girls in her kitchen. Well, one pretty girl in her kitchen. 

“That’s code for  _ Secretly, I’m Gordon Ramsay with eighty two michelin stars _ , right?” Louis teases.

“I don’t think it’s possible to have eighty two michelin stars,” Harry smiles softly and cocks her head, nose scrunching. Louis feigns disappointment, “No, I suppose not,” She perks up when the statement pulls a large smile from Harry’s annoyingly naturally pink lips. 

“Anyways, you can’t convince me that you’re not actually Gordon Ramsay,” Louis shrugs, returning to opening cabinets. “You’re a lot nicer than him, I reckon.”

She hears Harry get excited behind her. 

“Actually, I was reading something about Gordon Ramsay; he’s actually a really good guy, like. He did something with teaching prisoners how to cook or something so they’d have skills for the outside world or whatever, and then I think he like--challenged some guy to an onion chopping contest or something? And the other guy won and he automatically offered him a job at one of his restaurants when he got out of jail, I think. I dunno, he’s a really good lad and the only reason he yells at everyone all the time is cos they’re, like, giving their customers salmonella and like-- diarrhea.” 

Louis stares at her for a long second, Harry’s fingers and eyes fidgeting under the blue gaze. 

“Diarrhea, yes, okay. Would you like to make pancakes now?” Louis asks, confused and trying not to laugh. 

“Oh, yeah, sure, okay,” Harry responds awkwardly. It makes Louis giggle at her, and shake her head. 

“That’s really cool, though. Where did you read that? Are you the studious type, newspapers and articles and BBC subscriptions and all that?” she teases her, mimicking the motion of pushing a pair of glasses up her nose (it’s only a little bit ironic seeing as Louis desperately needs glasses). Harry shakes her head, curls draping over her shoulders and untucking behind her ears as she does so. “Tumblr,” she says simply and quietly, if not a little bashful. It makes Louis laugh though, a full bodied laugh with her head thrown back and amusement definitely exaggerated just for show. 

“Oh God, Tumblr?!” she yells, mock incredulous, “Ohmygod, all of my respect for you has just  _ gone down the drain _ . Get out of my house, I can’t bear to look at you.” her theatrics make Harry giggle and cackle, it makes Harry press her hand to her lips, it brings back the dimple full force, brings back the crinkles. It’s wonderful, and honestly, Louis would yell at Harry all day if she’d smile like this. 

“Good lord,” Louis mutters, “and to think. I was gonna make you pancakes,” she shakes her head, hands on her hips. 

“Hey, you can’t even find the fucking pancake mix,” Harry laughs. 

“Oh, dirty Styles, got a potty mouth. Settle down, mate, I was only messing around. No need to get so raunchy. Gosh,” Louis teases, a smile forming at the end to show she’s just fucking with her. 

“Me?!” Harry questions, truly incredulous as she laughs in disbelief. “You’re the one dropping f-bombs left and right, it’s like fucking World War III!” she says hands gesturing wildly. 

“I love how you used f-bomb and then two seconds later said fuck,” Louis laughs, leaning against the cabinet behind her. 

“Alright, settle down, ya fucking language police, I’m just trying to get some free pancakes, I didn’t ask for this abuse,” Harry waves her hands at Louis, as if to calm her down. 

“Yes, pancakes, right,” Louis says, suddenly all business, and turns back around to continue her search. She reaches to the cabinet above her fridge and can reach it very comfortably (on her tip-toes that is) and she finally sees the box of pancake mix.

“A-ha!” she exclaims, hopping a bit when she sees it. She turns around to Harry as if to celebrate this victory with her. “Look! Look! I found it!” she yells, excited and absolutely determined to make Harry laugh (it’s not just Harry though, everyone has to laugh at her always, it’s awkward if they don’t, how do people have serious conversations? It’s weird, she thinks). She does make Harry laugh. It’s very satisfying. 

It is not satisfying, however, when she reaches up to grab the box and  _ can’t fucking reach it.  _ Not only is it dissatisfying, it’s also slightly humiliating that she’s too fucking short to reach the box of pancake mix right in front of the absolutely stunning girl in her kitchen. She hopes Harry thinks she’s cute and not a freak of nature, a stumpy girl who can’t even get shit out of her own kitchen. 

All those thoughts leave her head immediately because  _ Harry is pressed up against her back.  _

_ And she’s nearly naked. _

_ And her softwarm thighs are pressing into Louis’ bum.  _

_ And she’s so much taller than Louis and she can actually reach the goddamning pancake mix.  _

_ And Louis is  _ absolutely  _ thinking exclusively italics.  _

Harry grabs it and isn’t given a chance to pull away before Louis turns around and accusingly says, “You calling me short?” the statement falls  _ short _ though when she faces Harry, the words coming out breathy and weak. 

“We’ve discussed this, Lou,” She breathes, blinking rapidly. Their lips are mere inches away, and both of them are quite self conscious about morning breath (it’s very frustrating because louis can’t smell any morning on harry’s breath. At all. Maybe she’s not breathing. I dont think she’s breathing). 

And they just fall into each other. 

It’s so simple, the press of their lips. It’s just the glowing in Louis’ chest, the increasing warmth in her fingertips when they touch Harry. There’s no tongues or teeth, it’s just their lips pressed together, simple and sweet. And then Louis remembers what Harry implied about her height, and honestly it’s justified when Louis nips Harry’s lip. 

Harry pulls back in surprise immediately, “What the fuck!” she says as she raises her fingers to soothe the sore spot.

“You called me short, love,” Louis shrugs with a fake look of innocence veiling her smirk. 

“I did no such thing,” Harry retorts. 

“You implied,” Louis shrugs gracefully and unapologetic. Harry laughs disbelievingly, shaking her head. 

“Okay, fine. Go find someone else to make you pancakes, then.” Harry shrugs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She stands to her full height so that Louis has to look up in order to meet her eyes. Louis does not appreciate the smug smile Harry’s got plastered on her annoyingly attractive face. 

“No.” Louis says suddenly, stubborn and petulant as anything. “I don’t want anyone else’s pancakes,” and it may sound stupid but Louis is finding that it’s true. She doesn’t want anyone else’s pancakes, or their kisses, or their smiles. She doesn’t want anyone else standing in her kitchen, nearly starkers and surrounded by kitchenware. She doesn’t and it’s slightly terrifying that she feels this way after not even 24 hours. She raises up on her tip-toes to prove it. 

Harry, to her credit, only looks slightly shocked at the sudden change in Louis’ attitude. Then she’s giggling and blushing, balancing Louis by her shoulders with a satisfied look on her face. She kisses her again. This time with tongue and teeth and fingers digging into spines. This time it’s with smug smiles and sharp canines, it’s with dimples and quick lips, it’s clinging onto Harry’s shirt and spitting her hair out of her mouth. 

“Sorry,” Harry apologizes and continues kissing Louis. 

Eventually they pull apart and pick up the pancake mix from where it fell to the ground (closed thank god). This leads to them rummaging through the cupboards, Harry trying to hoist Louis up so she can reach the measuring cups, the mixing bowl, the skillet. Louis convinces Harry to let her crack the eggs, and Louis can see it on her face when she realizes how big of a mistake that was. She knocks the eggs a bit too hard against the mixing bowl and it cracks completely, bits of eggshell slip between her fingers and into the mix. She smiles nervously at the bowl and then slowly turns her head to look at Harry. 

“Oops?” she tries, looking at a wholly unimpressed (but smiling) Harry. She tries to convince herself that her cooking struggles are charming and not frustrating. She thinks the way Harry is smiling at her means that maybe she’s right. 

“Good try?” Harry placates, attempting to smoothly push Louis away from the bowl. 

“Hey, no fair, this is my house!” Louis protests, huffing and pouting her lip as she crosses her arms over her chest. 

Harry raises a single eyebrow, and Louis leaves dramatically, head bowed and dragging her feet. She sits on the counter facing Harry, face resting on her fists. It’s actually much more fun like this, sitting and watching a girl make her breakfast right in front of her. It’s fun to watch the way she sticks her tongue out just slightly when she’s measuring out things, and the way she flourishes her wrist when she cracks the egg, a satisfied smirk on her face when she sees how impressed Louis is. 

It’s something she could get used to, watching Harry make her breakfast. Not only watching her make her breakfast, but waking up to her smile. Waking up to her smile and going to sleep with her, head resting on her soft, pale chest. She could get used to Harry in her house, period, loves the way that she fills the house with newness and excitement. She loves the way the girl in her kitchen smiles at her plants and looks around the place like she’s trying to take it all in, eyes passing over everything with reverance (maybe harry is like her, completely amazed this is happening. it doesn’t seem possible that harry could be as excited as her, but maybe). 

“Stop that,” Harry mumbles, cheeks red as she quickly flits her eyes back to her bowl of pancake mix. 

“Stop what?” Louis asks, furrowing her brows and sitting straight up with attention. Stirring the pancakes mix together Harry mutters softly and reluctantly, “Staring,” looking down and not meeting Louis’ eyes at all. Louis continues to stare, watching as Harry’s hair falls in front of her face, shielding her blush before she realizes what she’s doing and blinks, looking away quickly. 

“Oh,” she says, “Oh,” face completely blank, but realization washing over her. She hates this, hates feeling like she’s preying on this girl. Of course she shouldn’t have stared at Harry, she knew that, but she’s so gorgeous, so pretty she can’t help it, and no no Louis that’s not an excuse, don’t objectify her. She hates thinking she’s made Harry uncomfortable, hates that she might’ve felt the way Louis has felt too many times. The discomfort of a man’s eyes on you, watching your every move. She hates it. She realizes then how she stared at Harry last night, smug and so fucking cocky. She hates it. 

“No, wait, Louis, no, that’s not what I meant,” she continues on before Louis has a chance to interupt her, “I just meant I haven’t stopped blushing in the past like 16 hours, I was probably blushing when I was asleep for fucks sake, and to be honest- honestly, I’m starting to sweat now, so you need to stop before I have a heat stroke or at the very least develop a fever.”

Louis continues to stare at her, mouth hanging wide open while Harry just blushes _ more _ and Louis is so intrigued. How is she supposed to just look away?! Harry says it like it’s easy, but she’s probably never looked at herself the way she is now. All in all, it’s just not fair.

“Uh,” she swallows, uttering the single syllable eloquently. “I really don’t think that will be possible, love.” Harry’s eyes widen comically.

“Unacceptable,” she deadpans, or attempts to, but the word catches in her throat halfway through, so it’s entirely uneffective. “You’re gonna kill me,” she goes on, “And the fucking petnames and the staring and the niceness? Jesus Christ,”

Louis shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts, maybe organize them a bit, tidy the mess going on up there. It definitely doesn’t work because  _ Harry Styles _ , the very girl she’s been pining after for weeks from a far (a very far) is in her kitchen, terribly affected by everything Louis says. It’s absolutely  _ mad _ , proper unbelievable. Things like this don’t just happen to simple butches like Louis. 

“Uh,” Louis swallows, “Sorry,”

Harry just smiles at her nervously. 

“I can try and cut it down? Maybe less petnames and staring?” she says unsurely. Harry violently shakes her head. 

“No,” her voice soft, nearly just a whisper. “It’s just that- I just-” she sighs, seemingly frustrated at not being able to find the words, “No one talks me like you talk to me. And no one… no one really touches me? Not like, dirty, I mean that way too, but, like, I don’t get a lot of physical contact or- or affection and I’m too scared to ask, I guess but I don’t have to ask with you. And. I’m kind of overwhelmed and I don’t really know what to do with all this- this nice,” she looks down at her hands, bites her lip, and lets her hair fall in front of her face again. 

Louis laughs. It’s a feeling she can’t contain in her chest, something that overflows in the space between her lungs and her ribs and her heart. The space below her collarbones can’t hold whatever it is that Harry’s making her feel, and it expands until it spills from her throat, raw and unabashed and so, so uncontrollable.

“You… deserve it.” she says it so simply, like god Harry how can’t you know? How didn’t you see it before. “You deserve all the touches and compliments. You’re so- God, you’re so good, Harry, I don’t under- I don’t understand how someone can stand to look at you and not just… compliment you. I don’t,” she breaks off into a nervous laugh, “I don’t get it,” she shakes her head and shrugs. “I’m being mushy again,” she smiles awkwardly, “Ew,” she scrunches her face up again. 

“Ew,” Harry giggles, her dimple appearing again. It’s then that Louis realizes they’ve got a counter between them, and Harry is entirely too far away and she just want to poke her dimple, like, is that too much to ask? So she stands up, and pushes her stool away. She stands before Harry with intent, or maybe not any intent. It’s an intense feeling but she’s not rushed, she’s not hurried. She just kinda looks at her. She’s really pretty, so you can’t blame her for wanting to stare. 

“You’re really pretty. Did you know that? It’s kind of annoying. Can you stop?” 

Harry’s giggle isn’t musical or pretty it’s just funny and earnest and the cutest thing Louis has ever heard because it’s imperfect, like Harry. It’s probably the way she stands kind of crookedly, always leaning over to one side with one foot on top of the other. Or the way her smile is crooked or maybe her hair is crooked or maybe she’s made Louis’ life crooked. She’s tilted the world and made Louis’ life crooked and everythings kind of slipping and sliding around, everythings kind of different, but in a good way, in the best way. The world is different now because Louis knows that the second she steps away from Harry, she’s going to miss her. She’s not going to be able to do anything but think about her and that’s only slightly terrifying. It makes her think of the word in spanish, suddenly, for some reason  _ escalofriante. _

“I’ll do my best,”

Louis shakes herself out of her reverie, “Anyways. The pancakes?”

“Right, yes. I need a skillet.” 

Louis pulls a face at this.

“A skillet? They’re called  _ pan _ cakes not  _ skillet _ cakes,” she scoffs, desperately trying to hear that ugly, bumpy, dorky, wonderful laugh again. It’s nearly irrational, this need to make Harry laugh. She’d probably throw herself out the window just to hear it and that’s more than slightly concerning.

Harry snorts in response. 

“Uh, sure, we can use a pan, yeah, whatever you want,” she clears her throat, brow furrowing as she struggles to look Louis in the eye (louis would really like it if she did, she likes looking at the way harry’s green irises seem like a masterpiece, something an art student thought up one day looking at a green pond, or maybe an emerald, or maybe a jade necklace. it makes her think of lilypads and crystals and candy rocks maybe). She seems confident one second and shy the next, like a flickering buffer, glitches and ghosts. Louis can’t seem to sense any pattern, but she wants to, wants to figure out everything that makes Harry’s tick, the reason behind the way her eyes blink closed. She wants to know all the stupid little nothings and the big everythings. 

“I think, I might’ve dropped a pan at some point so I’m sure you have one, I’m just not entirely sure where…” Harry trails off as she pokes her head into a few different cupboards. Louis feels Harry’s breath stop when she softly rests her hand on her forearm. Louis’ fingers fall to the mermaid tatooed on Harry’s forearm as she grips the soft, pale skin (it’s not smooth, she has fine and lights hair littering the pale skin, it’s nice Louis thinks). She directs Harry’s arm to the lowest cupboard, letting her hand rest on the handle and leaving her to do the rest. Her fingers don’t leave the mermaid until the pan has been set on the counter next to the bowl of pancake mix. It’s strangely intimate, Louis’ hold on Harry’s arm, neither of them saying anything or meeting each others eyes until Louis slowly lifts her fingers from Harry’s arm. 

“Thanks,” Harry whispers. She flicks the stove on and all at once the flame flashes before them, bright and hot, it cools down after a second, turning purple and blue, it changes colors and settles down, but continues licking and writhing.

Louis can’t help but kiss her, then, whirls her around and presses her lips against Harry’s again. She’ll never get over it, she thinks. There’s this wonderful newness, learning all the ways that Harry kisses and she wants to figure out every single one. She wraps her arms around Harry’s waist, presses her up close to her. Harry smiles against her lips and as lovely as it is to feel Harry’s smile, she wants to see it, too, so she pulls away with two pecks of the lips. 

Louis breathes in deep, tries to keep the smile on her face at bay, maybe not look like a serial killer. She notices the goosebumps on Harry’s collarbone then and a pit of worry starts deep in her stomach, irrational and inconsolable until the situation is rectified. 

“Aren’t you cold, love?” she asks, eyebrows furrowing and realizes maybe Harry doesn’t know how terribly ADHD Louis is and the question seems a bit out of the blue. Harry must realize her near nakedness then and crosses her arms over her chest, and Louis resents it a bit, doesn’t like the dissapearance of the lovely milky skin. It is cute, though, the way she hugs herself and Louis can’t help but to wrap her in one, no matter how nervous she is (is she interpretting this wrong, is she allowed to hug her?) Harry promptly melts into it and Louis feels goosebumps everywhere on Harry. 

“Harry, why didn’t you tell me you were cold?” Louis asks, mock upset and indignant. Her voice is shrill and Harry laughs while warm hands rub up and down her shoulders, trying to warm her up. The goosebumps persist and Louis looks up incredulously at Harry. Harry promptly blushes. 

“This is the first time I’ve been cold all morning, Lou, remember? Blushing, fever, heatstroke?” 

Louis’ head plops down and she nods into Harry’s neck in response and slowly, secretly, careful presses a kiss to her the soft expanse of skin under her lips. She feels more goosebumps appear after that. 

“I’m gonna go get you a jumper, all right? I’ll be right back,” she pulls away and begins to walk to her room, “I expect those pancakes to be done when I get back!” Louis calls over her shoulder. 

Her room looks different. Infitesimally different, rays of sunshine hitting the unmade bed the same way, but with something undetectably off. The bed, inexplicably  _ looks _ like two people have slept in it. It’s got two wrinkled spaces of sheets now instead of one, and the pillow is at the top of the bed instead of it being thrown somewhere on the ground in the middle of the night like it usually is. 

Harry’s crashed into her world, left everything in a strange new light and tilted the world on it’s axis. It’s dangerous and concerning, the way her thoughts revolve around the girl with the curls. She tries not to think about it too much and swiftly nicks the warmest, biggest sweater she can find, yellow and impossibly soft. She wants to wrap her up in it, keep her warm and cozy and soft and comfortable. Louis wants the very best for her, wants to find the most luxurious things and drape her in it. She wants the pride as well, some sort of primal thing, like  _ Look! Look what I’ve done!  _ There’s also a small possibility that she wants to see Harry in her clothes, claim her in a softer way than the marks on her neck. But there’s only a small possibility, isn’t it?

It’s been less than a day in her close proximity and she’s already fucking gone for her, it’s ridiculous and stupid and horrible and vaguely thrilling to be feeling this way about someone. Her breath is knocked out of her when walks back into the kitchen, sees her smiling absentmindedly into the sun. She’d thought subconsciously for a moment that maybe she’d been exagerating Harry’s beauty in her mind, building her up to unrealistic expectations in the 0.2 seconds she’d been gone. She was wrong.

Harry flashes Louis a big smile, the one where almost all her teeth are visible and her eyes are completely closed. It’s cheesy and goofy and dorky and undeniably cute, so Louis gives her the same face as she walks over and hands the sweater to Harry. 

“Aw, Louis, it’s so soft,” she says, looking down at it and then back up at Louis, sincere in the strangest way like just being handed a decent sweater could make her cry. 

“I love this a lot, I might have to steal it,” she says earnestly as she rubs the material against her cheek, eyes closed and stupidly cute. 

“Alright, _ thief, _ why don’t you put it on first, before you’ve commited yourself to a life of crime,” she drawls, and yanks the sweater out of her hands. 

“Arms up,” she commands immediately, before becoming shocked with herself, sheepish and a bit embarassed when realizing Harry’s a grown woman who can put on her own sweatshirt. But then Harry’s raising her arms, obediently and gives Louis a small smile, toned, pudgy tummy coming into view as she does. The material sticks to her stomach as she does, one of those stupid, clingy, staticy shirts, and Louis unthinkingly blurts, “Here take this off,” and then immediately her face is completely red. 

“Ohmygod, no I didn’t mean it like that, it just doesn’t seem very comfortable. I wasn’t trying to get you naked, or anything- I’m not. Ohmygod I’m so sorry,”

Harry laughs hysterically, pushes Louis, “Stop, it’s fine,” and begins to unbutton the rest of her shirt. She’s still got no bra and for a minute she stands starkers in Louis’ kitchen. She’s breathless and shocked and staring- this is real life, she’s seeing how beautiful Harry is  _ again _ . Sunlight reflects off her skin, soft and sweet, and she’s not some model kind of perfect, she’s just Harry. She’s got perfect handfuls of pudge on her hips, a lovely swell of skin just below her belly button, and the softest definition of muscle across her stomach. 

And her boobs, Jesus Christ, her boobs. They’re beautifully imperfect, paler than the rest of her, with wonderfully erect nipples from the chilliness, Louis presumes. She’s gorgeous overall, a bit more than a handful, soft, ordinary and perfect with their iridescent stretch marks on the sides (they match her own, she think). She fails at not staring and guiltily looks up at Harry, gulping and eyes wide open. Harry’s just smiling at her, deep blush clear on her face and despite that, there seems to be a bit of teasing behind those green eyes. 

“You suck.”

And Harry cackles at her, bending backwards and holding her stomach as she does. 

“I’m very cold, Ms. Tomlinson, so if we could get a move on,” she raises her arms above her head again, and she is absolutely stunning stretched out in front of Louis so casually with her armpits unshaved (She applauds Harry in the back of her mind for that one, shaving just makes your armpits itchy and men don’t have to do it so why would women? She is not repulsed in the slightest, only proud). Louis rolls her eyes at her, holds the sweatshirt over her hands, tenderly fits her arms into the sleeves and pulls it over her head. Harry’s curls poke through, frizzy and wild, tucked into the collar of the sweatshirt. Her eyes are closed as Louis pulls it down over her bum, smooths it over her sides. She’s got a soft smile on her lips, her fingers holding onto the ends of the too long sleeves, and Louis can’t help but kiss her, softly, sweetly, tenderly, slowly. 

Harry’s smile grows against Louis lips, and she falls into Louis, melts into her. They’re hardly even kissing at this point, smiles only pressed together and their breath mingling. 

“The pancakes aren’t gonna burn, are they?” Louis asks suddenly against Harry’s lips, prompting a surprised laugh from Harry. She pulls away still laughing, bringing her wrist to her mouth to stifle the giggles. She shakes her head, “I finished them, c’mon,” 

“I couldn’t find any other plates,” she explains as she hands the pancakes over to Louis, stacked up on plastic Ultimate Spiderman plates. 

The Doncaster girls huffs out a laugh in response and brushes her fingers against Harry’s when she grabs the plates. 

“No worries,” she replies, “These are my favorite anyways,” and presses an easy kiss to Harry’s cheek. It’s all terribly domestic, she thinks as they sit down at the couch, syrup and butter set on the coffee table. They’re acting like girlfriends. It seems dangerous. 

Harry absentmindedly nudges her knee against Louis’ thigh from her criss-cross apple sauce position and brings her out of her thoughts. She smiles up at her and cuts into her pancakes. 

“Harry,” 

Harry looks up and hums with her mouth full of pancake. 

“There’s strawberries in this,” she points out dumbly. 

“Yeah.”

“You put strawberries in our pancakes.”

Harry begins to look worried, “Sorry, do you not like strawberries?”

Louis’ silent for a second. 

“I love strawberries,” she says and watches Harry smile, small and private like it’s some kind of secret, something only they know. It’s special and Louis can’t exactly put her finger on why, they’re only eating breakfast, it’s just a little thing. But it feels like the start of something important, the inciting incident, and she’s terrified. 

She stuffs her face with pancakes, of course and says, “Wanna be my girlfriend.”

It’s not exactly romantic, but it’s honest and raw, and there’s nothing else she could think of to say, nothing else really matters right now, does it?

“Sorry?” Harry replies, eyebrow furrowed cutely in confusion. Louis’ heart begins to race. Impulsion gives you terrible anxiety after the fact, she’s learned. 

She swallows and clears her throat, looks directly into Harry’s eyes, “Do you wanna be my girlfriend?” she repeats, quiet and soft. Harry’s mouth opens, shock evident on her face. She doesn’t say anything for a few moments. 

“You don’t- it’s okay. No, sorry for asking, apparently I’m really bad at one night stands. No worries. I’ll just walk you home? I mean of course you can stay, unless you don’t want to, that’s fine, too. I just kinda thought, maybe you might want to- I mean. We’ve been kissing. Well. Does kissing mean anything? Sorry, don’t answer that, it’s fine. I’ll just. Eat these pancakes you’ve made me. Thank you. They’re very good, by the way,” and stuffs the biggest bite of pancakes in her mouth ever and pointedly stares at the syrup covered BumbleBee on her plate.

“Yes.”

Louis’ head snaps up. 

“Yes,” Harry says, “Yes, of course, are you stupid?”

Louis laughs, a bit hysterical, “Yes?”

“Yes!” Harry cries, “Yes, yes, I would love to, ohmygod, of course,”

Louis leans over then presses her lips to Harry’s despite the syrup and pancake and butter and embarassment. 

“Yes,” against her lips. 

“Yes. Please.” 

And she tastes like strawberry pancakes. 

**Author's Note:**

> jesus fucking christ i finally did it. not gonna lie i cried when i was finishing writing this fic. couldn't fucking believe it. anyways, thanks for reading and i hope you enjoyed it! idk how to make links work i am very sorry send help but here's my tumblr https://rorystylinson.tumblr.com/  
> @rorystylinson  
>  i'm doing my very best ha lol fuck me


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